


sow the wind; reap the whirlwind

by partialconstellations



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (it definitely will), Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Divergence - Greyjoy Rebellion, F/M, Ironborn Culture & Customs, Mutual Pining, Northern Culture & Customs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-02-01 00:56:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialconstellations/pseuds/partialconstellations
Summary: Theon was ten years of age when he shed the kraken skin of Greyjoy to take up the scythe of Harlaw. When “We Do Not Sow” became “Reap As You Sow,” and House Harlaw’s Words, instead of being an ironic echo of House Greyjoy’s, became a warning to his father.Something is rotten in the Iron Islands. Theon Harlaw is sent to treat with the Starks of Winterfell.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 88
Kudos: 237





	1. Theon I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [procellous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/gifts).

> A gigantic Thank you to procellous for betaing, their general input, throwing this idea at my head in the first place and solving my “I don’t have a title” waffle with a single fucking sentence.
> 
> Any mistakes that remain are my own fault.

The east wind brings the faint breeze of the greenlands, real or imagined, and with it the smell of today’s catch being hauled in and a raven with irrevocable changes to Theon Harlaw’s life curled within its claws. The fateful raven finds its way to the Raven Tower along with many others, not even aware of the upheaval it brings with it.

Theon has been hiding from Dagmer Cleftjaw, who had started drilling him more relentlessly in more recent months, claiming that if Theon were still on Pyke, he would have been aboard ships since the day he started to walk, captaining his own and raiding in the Summer Sea for many years, and not still clinging to his mother’s skirts and pouring over his uncle’s books a grown man.

He’s not exactly proving Dagmer wrong here, he supposes, sitting with his mother by the window overlooking the bay. Supposedly he’s helping her with her knitting, but as far as he can see, he’s just keeping her yarn from tangling. His mother is chatting away animatedly, not even paying attention to what her hands are doing. Her needles move, the wool loops around her fingers and another row is done. Alannys’s fingers move faster than his ever could, even if he’s concentrating on what he’s doing.

The slight creak of the door only to be followed by a knock as it’s already swinging open announces Three-Tooth’s presence to them. Neither of them looks up. Uncle Rodrik’s steward was ancient already when Alannys was a girl and thus the only person brave (or senile) to act like she does. She stays next to the door, hands clasped behind her back. 

“Lord Theon,” she says, which finally makes Theon look up. The yarn moving in his hands only slightly slows down as Alannys starts listening. “Lord Harlaw has summoned you. You may find him in his reading room.”

His mother furrows her brow at him. “What did you do, Theon?” The accusation in her voice is only light.

Theon swallows. Maybe it was about missing his drills? Did Dagmer finally decide that enough was enough? “Nothing that I’m aware of?” he tries, not quick enough to make up an excuse on the fly.

“_At once_, if you please,” the old woman insists, more firmly, not even beginning to move from the door until Theon rises, carefully placing the two balls of yarn on the floor at his mother’s side, mindful not to tangle them, and then steps away from her with an apology and a kiss to her brow. She looks after him as he leaves, a faint frown pinching at the corners of her mouth.

The reading room might be the only room Uncle Rodrik doesn’t read in. It holds his desk, two additional chairs for visitors and not much else. Here is where he writes his letters and does his sums. It’s also where Theon used to have his lessons on accounting, lessons which neither of them particularly enjoyed, so he holds a certain aversion to this room. That’s probably the reason he’s nervous at being summoned here of all places.

His uncle beckons for Theon to sit opposite him as soon as he enters the room. He isn’t even fully seated before Rodrik speaks, without preamble. “Your father has taken to raiding the shores of the Reach again.” Theon’s blood runs cold. Hearing the Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands referred to as his father will never cease to confuse and frighten him, not for as long as he lives. Then the meaning of the words beyond that sink in. He reaches for the raven’s scroll at the same moment Rodrik slides it over the table, turning it so that Theon may read it for himself. It’s a short missive, unsigned.

“Lord Greyjoy,” emphasising his father’s name, he starts, slowly, his eyes still skimming over the page, “agreed not to raid the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Yes, he did.” Rodrik nods. “And now he has broken his word. I may have managed to convince him not to rebel against the Crown all those years ago, but you very well know that I never thought he’d keep to his word.”

He points to a collection of books he has assembled in front of him on the table, histories of the North, its people and their customs and their gods, treatises, a collection of maps and another collection of naval charts focused on the western shores of the North. “I have already written to Lord Stark.” He holds up a tightly sealed raven scroll, scythe pressed into already dried black wax. “You will follow the raven and go North, to Winterfell, and see to it that the terms we agreed upon will be followed to the letter.”

A thinner book joins the collection already in front of Theon, little more than a collection of handwritten papers—papers he has seen before, once—clearly bound within this very tower. The binding is done expertly, but unlike Rodrik’s journals, it doesn’t have anything embossed on the cover to mark it, no date. “Do not let this one leave your sight. It is for your eyes only.” Rodrik’s eyes bore into him through his seeing glass, following his every movement as Theon dutifully pockets the little book.

Nodding, Rodrik rises and walks over to Theon’s side of the table. Looking down at him, he firmly presses his fingers into the books he’s pushed in front of Theon, and which Theon has stacked by sheer force of habit. “Study these on your way North. Learn them. You leave at daybreak.”

* * *

Theon was ten years of age when he shed the kraken skin of Greyjoy to take up the scythe of Harlaw. When “We Do Not Sow” became “Reap As You Sow,” and House Harlaw’s Words, instead of being an ironic echo of House Greyjoy’s, became a warning to his father. 

Uncle Rodrik’s own sons—and wife—had perished during a plague brought in from the mainland, leaving him without heir. Mother had fled Father’s wrath for shielding Theon from his brothers’ blows for the halls of her girlhood, taking Theon and Yara with her. 

Unlike Father, Uncle Rodrik had encouraged his interests instead of belittling him and boxing his ears. He’d spent hours in the library with Theon by themselves, teaching him about history – not just the Islands’, but the Kingdoms’ and the world beyond – the importance of listening to your advisors and your bannermen, to care for your smallfolk, pouring over maps and charts to explain the complex relations of Houses great and small. 

As important as his uncle’s lessons were, he enjoyed his mother’s as well. She taught him to sew, gently correcting and encouraging his crooked stitches until they became less and less so. Yara sneered at him at first, until she tore her overshirt during an incident with a scullery maid and went to him, shame-faced, and asked him to mend it, so that Mother wouldn’t find out. It wasn’t until years later that Theon understood what that “incident” had entailed. 

Dagmer Cleftjaw, who had left Pyke with Mother and now served as Ten Towers’ master-at-arms, taught Theon to use sword and bow. While Theon took to the bow and always preferred it, with Dagmer’s guidance, through hours upon hours of drills and sweat, he became a passable swordsman. 

As the years passed, Theon thought of his father and brothers less and less. Sometimes, Uncle Rodrik received a raven with the kraken seal; those were the times Theon made himself scarce in the library. Those times, he either poured over a volume by himself, taking notes with questions for when Uncle Rodrik’s good mood returned—he was always all too happy to explain and discuss anything and everything with Theon, encouraging him to ask questions—or he went to sit and talk with Mother.

She began teaching him how to darn his own socks one such evening and Theon found that he enjoyed keeping his hands busy as he listened to his mother talk about her childhood, talk about his brothers Rodrik and Maron when they were still boys, before they had grown into the bullies Theon had known.

A fortnight after Uncle Rodrik returned from a visit to the Starks of Winterfell, he named Theon as his heir. 

Kneeling down to be eye-level with him, Uncle Rodrik asked Theon, in his quiet, measured voice that you just couldn’t help but pay attention to, whether he would like to take his name, and with it, his title after he was gone. He told him to consider it carefully, to make a list with questions, as he always did, to talk with his mother and sister, and return to him when he was certain that he had considered everything, so that they could go over it together. 

Theon’s first question was about his brothers, whether they didn’t have a stronger claim than he did. “Your brothers don’t know Harlaw, they don’t know the lands and as far as I can tell, they are right where they belong.” From his lips, the words sounded like an insult. Uncle Rodrik never yelled. Instead, his voice just got quieter. “Your brothers claiming Harlaw is why I want to give you my name. And, once you’re old enough, you will carry Nightfall. Some people will still question your status, first among them your father, but that will grant you as much legitimacy as I am able to. Harlaw will be ruled by a Harlaw.” Brow furrowed, Uncle Rodrik watched Theon as he scrawled next to his question. 

“Go on,” he smiled, once Theon had finished. 

“Does this have to do with you visiting Winterfell?” The question of why his uncle bothered to concern himself with the greenlanders had weighed heavily upon them, especially those in the North. They didn’t raid anymore, and they weren’t exactly neighbours, so he hadn’t seen the point.

Uncle Rodrik thought for a while, considering his answer, before he settled on one. “Lord Stark and I did come to an agreement that concerns you and one of his daughters, but that is in the far future. And there are some contingencies here, so it might never happen.” He tapped his own set of notes, much thicker, writing neater, with his index finger. “We will talk about it, once it comes to that. In truth, I hope it won’t.” Theon frowned, not exactly happy with his answer. He opened his mouth, but he hasn’t even finished forming the word “but,” when Uncle Rodrik interrupted with, “next question.”

Knowing better than to argue, he looked back at his list. Worrying his lip, he asked, “Why do you think I’d make a good lord?” That had been at the top of his list, but he was too afraid to ask it, fearing that his uncle might take his offer back.

Instead, his face lit up with a smile. “Because you’re asking that question, boy,” he replied. “It means you want to do the right thing and do right by your people. It means my lessons aren’t falling on deaf ears.”

They sat together for a very long while after that, Uncle Rodrik patiently answering every question Theon asked, until he started pressing the issue of his uncle’s visit to the North again, but he remained tight-lipped on that subject matter. However, his hand returned to cover that stack of papers again.

After their meeting concluded, Theon left the Book Tower and descended its stairs to cross the bridge over to the Lord’s Tower which not only housed his own sleeping chambers but those of the heir as well. Having crossed the bridge, he ascended again to the now empty floor where Rodrik’s own sons used to live. A scythe was carved into the blackened wood of the heir’s chambers. Running his fingers over the carving with one hand, he took out his list again, now heavily annotated, going over it again while staring at a dead boy’s chamber door, going through his options, not really questioning his uncle’s decision but his own skills. He wasn’t the most skilled fighter, nor the strongest, when just this morning Dagmer Cleftjaw had knocked him on his arse. He wasn’t really the smartest either, since Rodrik corrected him all the time, and Yara still beat him at racing.

Returning to his chambers, he started scribbling even more notes into the margins, until Mother came to check in on him and firmly put him to bed with a story, even as she declared him as being too old for such things.

Tucked into bed, blanked drawn up to his chin and clutching the little stuffed kraken that he’s had for as long as he’s known, he asked his mother whether she would agree with his decision to become a Harlaw like her.

A sad smile crossed her face as she smoothed his hair down. “You’ve been a Harlaw in all but name since the day I brought you into this world, my love.”

The next morning, Theon marched straight to the Book Tower, finding Uncle Rodrik bent over a thick volume, a forgotten bowl of porridge at the other end of the table, so as not to risk stain his precious books with food. “I consent to be your heir,” he declared solemnly, heart in his throat.

Rodrik nodded, equally solemn. “I will have to write to your father about our decision,” he warned, “Lord Greyjoy is still our Lord Paramount and he will be unhappy.”

With all the dignity his ten years could muster, Theon replied, “I know. But a Harlaw should rule Harlaw, you said so.” He puffed out his chest proudly, pushing all his doubts down. “And Mother said I’ve always been one.”

Uncle Rodrik’s serious expression turned up into a small smile as he reached for Theon to pat his cheek. Theon tried his best to seem like he wants to squirm away instead of bursting with pride. “You always were indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theon Harlaw is a nerd, pass it on.
> 
> The House Harlaw Words aren’t canon. I took some inspiration from gingersprite’s excellent fic [sinking through the sand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533943) as a starting point there; the “reaping” imagery plus scythe was just too good to pass on.


	2. Theon II

As he disembarks the _ Sea Song_, getting out of the way of two men hauling a barrel of freshwater aboard, Theon can’t help but hear his sister’s words ring between his ears when she had first taken command of her own ship. “Do not get underfoot,” she’d told him, standing on deck with him, watching her crew load the ship while Yara bellowed commands. She was obviously in her element, even though he’d quietly doubted that the crew needed her to yell at them quite so frequently. For a moment, Theon wishes Yara were here, but her _ Black Wind _ is not among the ships moored below Ten Towers.

He has never captained a ship before; barely left his uncle’s sight, in fact. Not like Yara, who has been given space to roam and to gain respect of her own. Even if she hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have let it stop her. Every time she comes home, she tells him tales of the places she’s visited and the things she’s seen, each tale taller than the last. There’s always a spark in her eyes and a smirk on her lips that tells him she isn’t above exaggerating the truth—especially when it comes to her conquests, once using her hands to measure out “those amazing tits, little brother.”

Even now, as the _ Sea Song _ is prepared for his journey North, Theon feels like he’s overstepping his bounds, just as he was as a boy. The _ Sea Song _ is his uncle’s ship, just as the crew are his uncle’s men, and the first mate has made it very clear that he is only getting in the way of the sailors doing their work as the ship is hastily loaded with supplies to make her ready for her departure upon the morrow. And so, he leaves the pier, not to get in the way of men who know their jobs better than he does his.

He only went down to make sure the ship would be ready, but the crew has that well in hand. Instead, he starts making a list of things he would need to pack in his head as he wanders the castle grounds, feeling more than a little lost. He remembers that the North has snows even in the summertime, so he would need warm clothes. He supposes he should bring guest gifts as well, to prove he’s not some sort of barbarian who can’t respect the mainland’s customs. Really, Rodrik should have given him more instructions on what to do instead of just shoving his books at him. Unless this is a test? But would Rodrik really gamble the alliance with the Lord Paramount of the North just to test him? Surely not. And yet, doubt starts setting in. He looks up to figure out where he has wandered while lost in his thoughts, realises that the sun is setting quickly and doubles back.

When Theon crosses the courtyard to get to the lower entrance of the Lord’s Tower, Dagon Pyke, the blacksmith’s apprentice, yells over to him, most likely to draw him into either a game of dice or cards, but Theon waves him off, and enters the Lord’s Tower to find his way to his mother’s chambers again. She’s moved to a different room, obviously having followed the sun, since her work is set down on a table, while she’s going around the room lighting a few candles, just enough to see by.

“There you are!” Alannys smiles brightly at him when he enters, sticking his head through the door like he did when he was a boy. “I was almost afraid you wouldn’t come to say farewell and that I would have to come find you to scold you before you left.” Alannys waves him in and beckons him over to come sit with her.

As he closes the door and follows her to sit down opposite her, Theon raises his eyebrows at her. “You already know?”

“Of course I do!” she protests, sounding almost offended. “Your uncle came by to tell me. Someone had to get the castle moving, so that everything is ready for your big mission, after all.” She smiles as she reaches out for him, gripping his hands tightly between her own. Her sleeve slips up her arm as she does, uncovering the tattoos on her forearm. They are faded, not like his own—the few he has already earned—still standing out in stark black contrast on his skin. She has four black bands in various stages of fading, each a finger wide. The one highest up, halfway up her forearm, the one that represents himself, is much darker than even the full one closest to it, Yara. Between himself and Yara, there are two thin lines circling her arm, miscarriages or stillbirths.

Glancing at the two closest to her wrist, Rodrik and Maron, the brothers who are part of the reason his family is here on Harlaw instead of on Pyke, he quietly asks her, “Do you miss them?”

Following his gaze, her eyes glaze over, just a little. “Every day,” she replies, a flutter in her voice. “But it was—no. It _is_ better this way. For your sake, and Yara’s, too, even if she would never admit it. They have been men grown for a long time now, and they didn’t need me, not like you two did. And I do _not_ miss _him_.” She holds up her thumb, where she used to have a miniature kraken between her thumb joint and its knuckle, now covered by more ink. “Pyke is a harsh place and your father an even harsher man. I fear Rodrik and Maron have too much of him in them.” She pauses, taking a moment to collect herself. “But you don’t need to hear that. You have enough to think about now without your old mother dragging up the past.” Her face softens. “I’m so proud of you, my darling boy.”

“I only hope I can live up to your expectations,” he says, eyes on their joined hands, worrying at his lower lip. “And Uncle Rodrik’s.”

“I have no doubt of that.” She squeezes his hands. “I raised a good boy.”

He flushes, wants to protest that he has been a man grown for many years, but he doesn’t feel it at this moment, while he’s seeking his mother’s approval and assurance. But while he’s here, he may as well ask her help. “I … was thinking about guest gifts. I’ve read they’re common on the mainland, and they would show goodwill. But I don’t … I don’t rightly know what would be appropriate.”

Alannys beams at him. “Come, I have something prepared for this.” She rises and bustles into the adjoining room, her bedchamber. When he joins her, she is already dragging a finely carved chest, which certainly isn’t from the Islands originally, out of a corner. “I have collected enough in here that should satisfy Lord Stark and his family.”

She opens the chest, releasing with it the fragrance of dried herbs. At the top, covering everything else, is a neatly folded blanket; one he’s barely seen her work on. She’d always put it away when he entered the room to sit with her. “This one is for Lord Stark’s eldest daughter,” she says, caressing the blanket, but not lifting it out of the chest. “She must be a few years younger than yourself, if I remember correctly.”

It’s a simple pattern, squares of black and silver, interlocked with grey and white. The subtle difference in colour between the silver and grey is barely noticeable. His curiosity piqued, he reaches for it to unfurl it to get a closer look at it, but is stopped by Alannys’s hand on his again. “Don’t. You’re dreadful at folding and you don’t want your gift to be in a mess, don’t you?” She is smiling again, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “I think you can work out for yourself which of the other gifts are meant for whom. And of course, your uncle chose books for Lord and Lady Stark. Oh, I hope the toys we made for the littlest one are still appropriate, it’s been a while since we made them!”

Theon sputters. “_That’s _ who those blocks I carved were for?”

Alannys shrugs, taking the blanket away from him and putting it neatly back into the chest. “It shows you’ve put thought and care into your gifts.” She closes the chest with a loud thump and then straightens.

“Don’t worry about this, I already told a servant to come get it, in case you wouldn’t think of it. It will be on board when you set sail.” She stops talking and then looks up at him with tears glistening in her eyes. “You’re going to set sail,” she repeats, the tone in her voice filled with wonder, like she can hardly believe it. “My little boy. Promise me you’ll return to me.”

“Of course I will, mama.” He presses a kiss against the crown of her head and pulls her into his arms. “Will you be there tomorrow? To see me off?” he asks around the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat.

She shakes her head, a sad smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “No. It would be cause for the men to talk. You don’t need to give them more reason to do so. Better to say our goodbyes now, in private.”

Understanding, he nods, feeling tears well up in his eyes. “Now, there’s no need for that. You’re a man grown, and I’m prouder of you than you could ever imagine.” Alannys reaches up to firmly wipe away the tears before they can start to fall. “Dry your eyes and then leave. You still need to pack a few things, I imagine,” she adds, the tone in her voice booking no further argument.

Before he leaves his mother’s chambers, he turns around one last time, to see her standing in the doorway, with one arm wrapped around herself, and a fist pressed to her mouth, clearly to stop herself from crying. Alannys gives him an encouraging smile before he turns sharply and walks out, taking a long breath as he closes the door behind himself. It takes all his effort to breathe in and not start crying again immediately and climb the flight of stairs that lead to his own chambers instead.

Before entering, he touches the scythe carved into his door, tracing its line with his fingers – perhaps for good luck, perhaps hoping that he won’t meet the same fate as the chambers’ previous occupant, a cousin he barely remembers. It all comes down to the same thing, he supposes.

When he enters, it’s obvious someone has been here in his absence – not only is there a chest already packed and another open, with a bit of space left over for him to pack things for himself, but there’s a long, leather-wrapped object placed on the desk, impossible to miss. His breath stuck in his throat, Theon approaches the desk slowly, like the parcel might disappear if he approaches with too much haste. With shaking fingers, he reaches for it, and finds it lighter than expected.

Theon doesn’t need to unwrap it to know it’s Nightfall, his House’s ancestral weapon, but he does so anyway. As he unwraps the leather, gripping the sheath tightly for fear of dropping one of the few Valyrian steel blades left, a small note falls out. _ I pray you will never have to draw it, but we don’t live in that kind of world. Use it to make it better. R. _

He draws the blade, just a little, perhaps to convince himself he’s really been entrusted with the keeping of it. Turning it, he watches the candlelight’s reflection flicker weakly along the rippled pattern. It’s almost as though the dark metal is swallowing the light. Re-sheathing it, he lays the sword on the bench at the foot of his bed, where he lays out his clothes when he chooses what he intends to wear, to remind himself to take it with him in the morning.

As he finishes packing his chest, lays out his clothes for the next day and gets ready for bed, Theon’s eyes fall on his little stuffed kraken, patched more or less expertly in a couple of places, sitting in one of his drawers and he swallows. He is too old for such things, he admonishes himself, but his hands are already around the little thing. He doesn’t pack it to take it with him—he is not that much of a child—but he does take it to bed with him. A little company as he tries to find some sleep can’t possibly be such a bad thing, after all. The waves crashing against the cliffs below provide a familiar, comfortable sound, but sleep eludes him for a long time, as he feels a sudden heaviness sinking onto his chest, aware of the responsibility and faith placed upon his shoulders, thoughts chasing each other inside his head. He curls into himself, the little kraken clutched tightly into his hands and listens to the waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theon Harlaw is a mama’s boy, pass it on.
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be a quick transitional thing to get us to _Theon goes North_, which is now chapter 3, because Theon and Alannys decided to be precious babies.


	3. Theon III

Theon is one and twenty years of age when he first glimpses the shores of Sea Dragon Point of the North, having passed Flint Cliffs, Cape Kraken, The Rills and the Stony Shore in the days prior. Bear Island is barely visible on the horizon. He’s on deck aboard the _Sea Song_, the wind whipping away every word spoken before it can reach his ears. It’s as good an excuse as any to lean over the taffrail to leave the sailors to their work, revelling in the fact that he can finally put a real image to the names on the charts he has studied with Rodrik.

Having sailed along the Northern shore for a while, he can’t agree with the descriptions found of the North as a frozen wasteland. Now, at the height of a long summer, it looks almost as green as his memory of the Reach, even if the waters seem a little greyer, but that might just be the rising mist. He wonders if the talk of summer snows is just that, a fiction made up by a biased source.

On their first day at sea, Keir, the first mate, had told him in no uncertain terms that Theon would be captain in name only. It stung, but it made sense. He knew his knots and his signals, had spent some time in all positions like any Ironborn boy, enough to earn him the simple sailor’s knot tattooed around his left wrist, but little more beyond that. It’s not enough to add the second set interwoven with the first to mark him as an experienced sailor to be relied on in a storm. To say that he is out of his depth would be an understatement.

He’s made a few short trips with Yara on the _Black Wind_, but he hasn’t learned much beyond shouting and how to scurry up the ratlines there, either. Another year—his sixteenth—was spent on the _Sea Song_, sailing around Dorne and the eastern shore of Westeros, with Rodrik and his mother, but instead of learning how to smoothly run a ship and its crew, his lessons hadn’t changed much from the ones held in the Book Tower. Rodrik was grooming him for lordship—running the island, not a ship. Rodrik placed emphasis on ruling himself, not relying on his steward too much, and he placed even more emphasis on doing it informed. All these values he impressed on Theon. “Practically any brute can run a ship, not many can rule the island,” Rodrik had told Theon once, disdain evident in his tone, when he complained about being cooped up in the tower for too long when he was younger, and more foolish.

One of the boys, Butni, one of Sigfryd Silverhair’s grandsons, approaches him from behind, placing a hand on the railing next to Theon. “We will reach port by late midday, my lord,” he says, eyes lowered to somewhere on Theon’s chest as he speaks.

Butni hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet, although Theon supposes he isn’t far off, so he kneels down to be eye-level with the boy. “I’ve told you. It’s Theon,” he corrects the boy, for what feels like the thousandth time. He taps against the boy’s chest, where his heart is beating. “We’re family,” he emphasises, trying to get a smile out of him.

The boy’s eyes fall on the simple knot visible on Theon’s wrist, where his sleeve has fallen away, and then his own, where the full knot—freshly done, during this voyage, in fact—sits. His face is still too open, so Theon can’t avoid seeing the sneer that crosses Butni’s face as he takes a step back, breaking the contact. The boy is only four and ten at most, and yet, in Ironborn eyes, more of an adult than Theon. The realisation smarts, not unlike being stung by a jellyfish, and Theon snatches his hand back, shaking the sleeve back to cover his own child’s tattoo as he gets back up.

“Is there anything else?” Theon asks stiffly, all feeling of kinship or familiarity knocked out of him with that single, disapproving look.

“No, my lord,” Butni replies, his back already turned as he returns to his work.

Sighing and with a last look back at the mainland, where the ship is following the shoreline to the small town harbour closest to Deepwood Motte, Theon heads back to his cabin, to get out of the sailors’ way, and to look over Rodrik’s notes, which have been joined by his own, one last time.

True to his word, Theon has studied Rodrik’s small book until he knew most of its contents by heart during the journey. The same applied to the marked passages in the books, focusing mostly on the faith of the Old Gods of the Forest, which is entirely foreign to him. At least the septons that help keep Rodrik’s library have given him a small impression of the Faith of the Seven, but, considering that there aren’t even trees on Harlaw, an entire religion based around them is difficult to imagine. Rodrik put a single small sheet of carefully written notes in that book as well, to point out that it was written by a septon, and thus, likely biased again. A small note, dated the year he had visited Lord Stark, added that, upon asking, the Northmen kept their particular beliefs close to their hearts.

Rodrik’s notebook contains the terms of the arrangement with Lord Stark made all those years ago. That it includes a clause concerning Theon himself – a betrothal to Lord Stark’s eldest daughter, who couldn’t have been more than six years old herself at the time – is one he hasn’t tried to think about too much. He wonders how that came to be. It doesn’t seem to make political sense for Lord Stark to promise his daughter to House Harlaw when she, as a daughter of Winterfell and Riverrun, is highborn enough to be betrothed to a prince. Considering the ties of friendship between Houses Stark and Baratheon, in addition to the broken betrothal between Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark, it might have even been expected.

All this put together, has led him to the conclusion that the two men have come to a separate arrangement that either hasn’t been set down on paper, or simply hasn’t been entrusted to him. The idea that Rodrik sent him on this mission without knowing the entire agreement is enough for him to turn sleepless in his bunk, self-doubt to gnaw an even deeper pit into his stomach. He feels unprepared enough as it is, so having something kept from him is even less assuring.

He is squinting at Rodrik’s neat, but incredibly small handwriting, perhaps to draw some last revelation out of it at the last moment, when a heavy knock sounds against his cabin door.

“Come in,” Theon calls, only to realise belatedly that he really should ask who it is, first. Hastily closing the little book and covering it as best he can with his hand, he turns around in his seat and tries not to look like a little boy who has been caught peeking at something he shouldn’t have.

“Little lord,” the man sniggers as he enters the cabin, “you should come on deck. This will be of interest to you and your _very important, very secret mission_.” The jab doesn’t even register anymore. He has listened to the crew joke for the better part of a fortnight now, once they’d realised that he wasn’t going to tell them what his mission entailed. They’d settled for poking fun instead of probing him for information. It’s the lesser of two evils, he supposes.

“I’m coming,” he replies, ignoring the jab and pockets Rodrik’s book as he follows the man up the ladder and on deck.

The charts show Deepwood Motte and its surrounding lands in a bay, Sea Dragon Point fielding a natural defence of the bay from the sea. When he glimpses the shore, he realises why this particular location was chosen by both Lord Stark and his father. There are longships lining the shore, neat rows of them as far as the eye could see, like toys that have just been cleaned up and placed neatly upon a shelf. Their sails are furled, of course, but instead of being a natural off-white of linen, they are dyed slightly darker, a light grey colour, light enough to almost be mistaken as natural by an untrained eye. The colour is not yet sun-bleached, and Theon would bet a considerable amount of gold that each main sail of the entire fleet bears the Starks’ direwolf sigil on a field of green. Eddard Stark isn’t one for doing things by half-measures, it seems. Theon hopes this particular detail won’t come back to haunt them.

“How old are these ships?” Theon asks Keir as he steps up next to him at the bow of the ship.

“Most of them are around four to seven years in age, but none is older than ten,” Keir replies confidently, after his eyes have skimmed over the construction, the small imperfections. He turns his head in Theon’s direction, a grim set to his mouth. The waves tattooed on his neck move as he swallows. “Should we be worried the North has suddenly decided to build enough ships to be considered a fleet again? Ones that look too much like our own for comfort?”

Theon’s fingers itch to take out Rodrik’s book, to note down his observations immediately, lest he forget details. But he has promised his uncle not to let anyone see, and that included his first mate. “Lord Theon?” Keir asks again, “should we be worried?”

Swallowing down doubt, he replies, “No. They’re part of my mission.” He hopes he sounds more confident in that knowledge than he feels.

Keir looks unconvinced as he looks back at the ships they have now started to sail past. They’re all at port, with only a few small fishing vessels out in the bay. The oarsmen give all of them a wide berth, lest someone think the Ironborn have come to raid again. “I hope that Lord Harlaw knows what he’s doing.” He pauses, looking Theon up and down again. “I hope that _you_ do,” he emphasises.

_As do I_, Theon thinks, but he knows better than to say that aloud. His standing is precarious enough as it is. His eyes skim over the longships again, starting to count them. “There are around fifty, perhaps a few more,” Keir’s voice cuts through the wind.

The surprise must be obvious on his face, because Keir elaborates, “It was obvious you were counting.” He squints at Theon, then shrugs. “Don’t let the men get to you. You’ve got a right head on your shoulders. Now try to make yourself presentable, we’ll make landfall shortly.”

Theon nods in gratitude, glancing at the Northern ships a last time before he returns to his cabin. It’s warmer than he expected, so he forgoes the heaviest of the furs that have been packed for him and just dons another underlayer before adding a black doublet with silver piping along the front seams and around the cuffs, with matching black breeches. It’s one of the finer shirts he’s allowed himself to bring, and, to be truthful, among the only things that doesn’t need a good wash. It likely wouldn’t endear him to his hosts if he arrived stinking of salt and sweat more than is strictly necessary. He runs a hand through his hair to get some of the tangles out but decides against wasting some of the Lysene scent he’s brought. A little stink couldn’t possibly be held against him, and even a couple of drops from the bottle are precious. The colours are entirely impractical, too likely to be bleached by the sun and mostly meant to be worn inside, but he is the sole representative of his House present. Unless you counted Butni, a distant cousin from another branch.

Nightfall is a reassuring, if unfamiliar, weight buckled against his hip as he steps ashore. It’s an unusual sensation, to have solid ground beneath his feet again after spending almost a fortnight at sea, even if that sea had been calm. He can hear a few of the sailors snigger behind his back, something about peacocks and House Serrett, but Keir gets them to quieten quickly.

There is a small delegation of Northmen present in the harbour, who have clearly just now risen from their seats around a table in front of what appears to be the small town’s tavern. A young lad hurriedly unfurls the banner, a gloved fist upon a background of scarlet. They are the only ones not bustling about their tasks, so he heads in their direction, his legs feeling a little wobbly.

Upon noticing their beards, coarse and rough to a man, Theon’s hand almost goes to his own chin immediately, suddenly glad that he hasn’t trusted his hands’ steadiness enough to shave while at sea and that he doesn’t face the Northmen clean-shaven like a Southron lord. A middle-aged man in a scarlet overcoat moves away from the group, followed by a younger lad carrying the banner.

_Glover_, the part of his brain that sounds like his uncle supplies. _Masters of Deepwood Motte, overlords to the Houses of the wolfswood._ He can barely finish the thought before the man in scarlet, his hair yet more brown than grey, reaches him and greets him.

“Lord Harlaw,” the man greets him, hand outstretched. Theon eyes it, unsure if this is common on the mainland, before he takes it and gives it a firm shake. Luckily, the man seems content to return a firm handshake instead of squeezing his fingers like any man of the other side of Theon’s own family would have done. “On behalf of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, I welcome you to the North. I am Robbett Glover, brother to Galbart Glover, the Master of Deepwood Motte. You are in his lands.”

“Theon Harlaw,” Theon returns, before continuing, “It is a pleasure to receive such a warm welcome,” He desperately hopes that he has managed to find the right tone. It sounds incredibly pompous to his own ears, but Lord Robbett seems satisfied.

“Lord Stark’s representative will meet us in Deepwood Motte, if that is agreeable.” Theon nods. “Your arrival was a little … unexpected, so he is still making his way there,” Lord Robbett continues. “Are you alright to sit a horse yet?”

Theon’s eyes follow along the shore, taking in the line of ships and then settle on the shipyard on the edge of the settlement, where another two ships seem to be mostly finished and another one’s bare bones, reminding him of a whale skeleton. “I would speak to the shipwrights first.”

“Of course, Lord Theon,” Lord Robbett replies. “Deepwood Motte is a half day’s ride from here, so we should leave in two hours at the latest.”

“Two hours is plenty of time,” Theon assures him.

“Have your boy get your belongings then, mine will make sure they are all packed. Then follow me.” Lord Robbett turns away to his own men, and Theon turns around to find Butni a couple of steps behind him. He motions for him, relays his orders, including to stay with his belongings until he returns, and Butni nods, even though there is still a small frown on the boy’s mouth.

The exact terms of the agreement concerning the ships the North would build, and the shipwrights Harlaw would send to oversee the building, fill almost ten pages in Rodrik’s book. They include the location of the new shipyard, a rough estimate of how many and what kinds of ships would be built, and how many men each region would send to crew them, as the North has been powerless at sea since the days of Brandon the Burner, and its men would not know the first thing about seafaring, navigation, naval battle, or even how to supply a ship.

Today, his task is to simply make sure that the shipwrights, all handpicked by Rodrik, are satisfied with their work, while on his return trip, Theon is to meet up here with one of his uncle’s trusted men who would follow him within the week, to see that the North’s new fleet was not just sea-ready but that its men are as well.

The conversation with the shipwrights – three men, all with a shock of white or grey hair, their arms and hands almost completely covered in ink – goes almost entirely over his head, but they all express satisfaction with the work they have done, as well as their Northern workers, so Theon makes a note to ask Lord Glover for a raven to send to his uncle tonight. As Lord Robbett presses him for urgency for the third, Theon finally leaves the shipyard and joins the Northerner’s riding party to Deepwood Motte. They have secured his chests to a packhorse that seems to be getting on in years, but steady.

With a last look at his uncle’s ship and its crew, he bids Butni and Keir farewell, who are going to await him when he returns. To exchange the now-familiar roll of a ship for a horse within such a short timeframe takes some getting used to, but not as much as leaving the familiar, reassuring sight of the sea for the first time in his life. The road to Deepwood Motte follows the edge of the wolfswood and once he realises that he can’t smell the salt of the sea but instead the heady musk of the forest, it almost feels like the North is about to swallow him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A veritable fuck ton of knots are called sailor’s knot, which is, at times, unhelpful. Such as when you don’t actually want to name the actual name within universe. I specifically imagine the Carrick bend as the simple version of the tattoo, which is used to join two lines together. It’s a non-jamming hitch knot, which means it’s quick and easy to untie. The second (grown-up) set is a Turk’s head knot and would circle around the whole wrist and be tattooed over the simple version.  
**Source:** The Ashley Book of Knots (1944). If you’re a giant fucking nerd, I suggest having a look at it, it’s fascinating. (I’m 100% serious.)
> 
> Travel distances are based on the wiki and a mix of [this](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1KAqa9wwODqaFkegqf8Si6fmuE55-M-GMIj0ZmcKUFxs/edit) and [this](https://www.cartographersguild.com/showthread.php?t=19730). I have elected to ignore show travel times because they make no sense whatsoever, when mentioned at all. You can’t cross an entire continent with a royal progress in a _month_, D&D.


	4. Robb I

Deepwood Motte isn’t that far a journey from Winterfell and, if Robb weren’t pressed to hurry, it would have been a lovely, uneventful ride. They see a couple of startled deer, and the wolves are howling at night, but Grey Wind’s presence ensures they keep their distance. His father had only sent him with a few token men who are grateful they don’t have to maintain a full watch at night. The air is crisp and clean, and with the musk of the forest—fir and pine—filling his lungs, it’s all too easy to forget he is not just out hunting with his father’s men, but about to represent the Lord of Winterfell for the first time in his life. That thought starts to invade his thoughts once they’re only a day out from Deepwood Motte, and won’t really leave them after it’s settled, clutching tightly around his heart and settling deep into the pit of his stomach.

As it is, they ride from daybreak till dusk, making his less hardy riding companions complain of their sore behinds. The trail through the wolfswood is cleared regularly, and well-used, so they make good time nonetheless, shaving off almost an entire day off their journey. Hoping to get there before the guest he is supposed to welcome does, Robb urges his men to hurry. It would be poor form to be tardy, even though his father had assured him that Lord Harlaw’s heir would leave immediately and thus Robb wasn’t expected to welcome him ashore personally. The Glovers are loyal bannermen and would represent House Stark honourably and be nothing less than accommodating hosts. Still, Robb worries.

He does wonder why his father decided to host an Ironborn lord again, and a minor one at that, one whose name he only faintly remembers as having visited when he was younger, but other than that, he is drawing a blank on why their House would have dealings with his own. House Harlaw might be a prominent House in the Islands, but not too important in the larger scheme of things – just like the Islands themselves. Robb bites his lip, immediately admonishing himself. The thought isn’t kind, and surely his father has his reasons, good ones, even if he hasn’t shared them with him.

A longhall at the edge of the wolfswood, defended by a ditch, earthen dike and a log palisade, Deepwood Motte isn’t all that striking—nowhere close to the imposing grey granite walls of Winterfell—but Robb is happy to see it nonetheless and kicks his horse into a gallop as soon as it appears on the horizon, surrounded by fields of oat and barley as far as the eye can see. His companions follow his example, probably hoping for a hot meal, prepared by someone who might be a halfway decent cook for a change, and an even hotter bath, not to mention that one of the men has been grumbling about needing to stick his cock into something wet when Robb had been talking to Jory Cassel the night before. Grey Wind comes out of the underbrush once they reach the edge of the forest, and starts sticking close to Robb, keeping pace. It’s become easy to drop his hand and put it in Grey Wind’s fur even astride his horse, and it calms him somewhat on the last legs of the journey.

Robb has been to the motte before, but only ever accompanying his father. A horn sounds once, and as they reach the courtyard, the entire household seems fully assembled. Galbart Glover greets him with all the honours due the Lord of Winterfell, a groom takes his horse, and he is hurried into the keep before he can even fully comprehend that he has finally reached his destination. The kennelmaster offers to take care of Grey Wind, who just bares his teeth at him once he carelessly steps too close to him. The man takes hurried steps back, levelling an accusing glare at Robb. Everyone gives him a wide berth after that, and while Robb reassures them that while he will not harm anybody unprovoked, he shouldn’t be touched by strangers.

After ordering baths drawn and meals prepared for Robb’s men, Lord Glover takes Robb aside, Grey Wind following closely. His presence is comforting to Robb, taking some of that panic he felt away. “My lord, your guest has already arrived,” Lord Glover begins quietly. “He asked to go on to Winterfell immediately after spending the night but was told that an escort was on the way.”

Robb swallows. It was to be expected, but his mother’s voice at the back of his head tells him that he should always be courteous, and that meant greeting his guests in person. The part of him that tells him that technically, Lord Harlaw’s heir is his father’s guest, not his own, is much quieter. Grey Wind comes up between him and Lord Glover to nose at his hand. Sighing, Robb lays his hand on Grey Wind’s head and lets it rest there. There is nothing to be done. “Thank you, Lord Glover. I would like to meet him immediately to make up for my absence.” Robb stops for a moment to recollect his thoughts, still petting Grey Wind’s head. “How long ago did he arrive? What do you make of him?”

“My brother welcomed him at the harbour, as it didn’t seem prudent for me to leave the motte when we didn’t know when you would be arriving,” Lord Glover replies, changing direction, away from the main hall and around it. “In any case, they arrived only last night, so he hasn’t waited too long. He seems different than what we expected.”

His heart starts pounding in his chest again. This might complicate matters. “In what way?” Robb asks tentatively.

“Well.” Lord Glover begins, halting to pick his words carefully. “More. _Cultured_, I suppose, is the word you’re looking for. If I may speak plainly?”

Robb bites his lip and then nods.

“I must say, I was sceptical reading Lord Stark’s letter, considering the Ironborns’ inability to stay in their own waters. I only briefly met Lord Harlaw—Rodrik Harlaw—when he visited the North and he was very unlike what I expected, too. It seems Lord Theon takes after his uncle.” Relief colours Lord Glover’s words.

That surprises Robb a little. He barely remembers Rodrik Harlaw’s visit and his father had kept quiet about it, the exact terms of their talk, until the raven bearing the black-waxed scroll arrived in Winterfell, almost a fortnight ago. “In what capacity did you meet Lord Harlaw?”

“Well, those ships Lord Stark and Lord Harlaw have talked about are being built in my own backyard, by my own people, but they’re overseen by Lord Harlaw’s men. All respect to your father, but I would not have agreed to my men answering and being trained by outsiders, and Ironborn especially, if I hadn’t met the man _they_ answer to.”

“Of course. Thank you for your honesty.” Robb nods, filing the information away carefully. House Glover has been nothing but loyal and steady, but in the way of the Northmen, unafraid to challenge their Lord Paramount. His mother always looks a bit displeased when she witnesses these kinds of exchanges between Ned and his bannermen, but she never brings it up, at least not in Robb’s presence.

Lord Glover has led him to an archery range at the back of the longhall. The assembly welcoming Robb only dissolving slowly, the range is entirely deserted, except a man with sandy hair in dark, sun-bleached leathers, standing a few steps behind a boy that Robb judges to be about Arya’s or Bran’s age.

Lord Galbart takes in a sharp breath and quickens his steps. “Larence, don’t pester Lord Theon. He’s highborn and our guest.”

“I wasn’t pestering _anybody_,” the boy huffs with an indignant raise of his shoulders, the squeak of childhood still in his voice, “he _offered_.”

Lord Glover’s attention is already on the man though, even as he keeps an eye on Grey Wind, bounding off across the range. “I must apologise, Lord Theon. The boy sometimes doesn’t remember his station.”

A sad smile appears on Lord Theon’s face as he looks at Lord Glover, his hand going to the boy’s shoulder. It looks like he’s giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t mind. I saw he was dropping his elbow and I merely corrected it a little. He’s a quick study.”

“And why weren’t you present to greet your future liege?” Lord Glover admonishes the boy who is still clutching the bow tightly, his eyes now levelled at the floor. It appears to be sulking, rather than respectful.

“I apologise, my lord. I didn’t think my absence would be noted.” Larence raises his head to meet Robb’s gaze, a little defiance shining in eyes that seem far too clever. “And I didn’t think that my lord would want to be greeted by a Snow anyway.”

_Ah._ Robb reaches out to ruffle the boy’s hair, to ease him into security just as much as to pacify Lord Glover into not punishing him too harshly. And Larence inadvertently pulls away, judging himself far too old for such things, just like Arya and Bran would have done, but it works, the defiant look is gone. “It’s alright. My brother Jon is a Snow, too, you know,” Robb smiles at him and the boy lights up in excitement.

“I have a brother, too! He lives in Hornwood, though.”

“Half-brother,” Lord Glover corrects him, but it’s done with fondness, now that he can be sure that neither Robb nor Lord Theon seems to mind. “Now run along, Larence. This meeting isn’t for the likes of you.”

Robb winces. It isn’t how he’d have put it, but he still shares Lord Glover’s sentiment. The boy’s presence has eased them into a sense of familiarity, but a formal introduction between two future heads of their House is not something he should be present for. Still, Robb is glad to meet Lord Theon in relative privacy and not at full assembly as he’d half feared.

Larence gives Lord Glover a quick look, and then steps in front of Lord Theon. “Thank you for your instruction,” he says with perfect diction and the air of someone wanting to prove himself. It reminds Robb a little too much of Jon at four and ten, entirely convinced of needing to join the Night’s Watch. “I will not forget your kindness, my lord.” Then he heads off in the direction of a squat building by the wall.

Lord Glover looks after him for a moment, and then he focuses on Robb and Lord Theon, staring mutely at each other. When Lord Glover speaks next, it is with all the gravity that has been missing up until now. Grey Wind, inspecting the wall, raises his head, ears twitching. “Lord Robb, may I introduce you to Theon Harlaw, heir to Lord Rodrik Harlaw of Harlaw, sworn bannerman of House Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. Lord Theon, Robb Stark is heir to the Lord Paramount of the North. He is here on behalf of Lord Eddard Stark and will escort you to Winterfell.”

Before Robb can open his mouth to make his own welcome, Lord Theon seizes the word. “You must be the reason for all the commotion earlier? I’m not part of the household, so I don’t think you can judge me for not dropping everything to come to greet you.” The grin the Ironborn lord offers is cocky, but the corners of his mouth twitch, almost like he is not as certain as he seems.

He speaks with an accent Robb is unaccustomed to, but it’s not the guttural growl he expected to come from the harsh Iron Islands. The way he strings his words together sounds almost melodic.

Rendered speechless by the openness that Lord Theon shows, Robb falls back on protocol, drilled into him by the Southron courtly instructors his mother insisted on for him and Sansa. Bran, Arya and Rickon escaped those particular lessons. “I am to welcome you to the North on Lord Eddard Stark’s behalf. I apologise that he wasn’t able to greet you in person.” Robb feels the need to offer more of an explanation, but his lessons still ring in his ears. The Lord Paramount has many duties, after all. And the heir taking on some of these is expected to prepare him for his inheritance, especially now that Robb is a man grown.

“And I’m certain that Lord Stark thinks providing you as the escort of the heir to a minor house, of similar age to your own, to safely introduce you to your future duties has nothing to do with it,” Lord Theon replies, but the crook of his grin makes the words seem less harsh.

Robb startles at this obvious breach of protocol. The thought has occurred to him, but to hear it spoken so plainly, by the offended party nonetheless, is not something he has expected. “My father has many duties,” he offers stiffly in reply.

“I did not mean to offend or insult, Lord Robb,” Lord Theon says, the grin vanishing, his voice more sober now, “I am simply stating the facts. Though his duties are fewer than your father’s, my uncle sent me for those very same reasons, I’m certain.”

Even with Lord Glover’s assessment, Robb is surprised by Lord Theon’s manner. Despite the single wave inked on the side of his neck, and a compass on the back of the hand he now extends to Robb, and his accent, Lord Theon doesn’t seem too different from any of the Northern lords he’s met, or the few Riverlords he has met visiting his grandfather’s seat. The words “barbarians who mutilate children,” muttered under her breath by his lady mother at breakfast before Robb left, ring hollow in his ears. The Ironborn are painted in a harsh light in many histories, his mother holds many views that stem from the Ironborn rule over the Riverlands prior to Aegon’s Conquest and even Maester Luwin loses precious few good words about their sea-faring neighbours.

Lord Glover, who has been quietly watching them, raises his voice again. “I’m sure you are exhausted from the journey, my lord. A bath and a meal have been prepared for you, and maybe you would like a short rest as well. Afterwards, I would like to talk to you about certain issues I have already raised to Lord Stark. I trust he has informed you?”

The tension lifted, Robb nods in acknowledgement. “He has indeed. Though I am sure I would simply not rise again before dawn if I were to rest now, so I will join you after a bath and something to eat.” He waits for Lord Glover to agree before he whistles for Grey Wind and then turns back to Lord Theon. “If it is agreeable to you, Lord Theon, I would like to spend the night, and then start the return journey at first light tomorrow.”

“Of course. I am eager to meet Lord Stark,” Lord Theon replies formally, with a suspicious eye on Grey Wind. “Are wolves bigger than I imagined them to be or is that truly a direwolf?”

“He is. This is Grey Wind. My siblings and I have raised him and his siblings since they were pups. I’d be careful though, he is tame, but no lapdog.”

“You _and_ your siblings, huh?” Lord Theon repeats quietly, eyes still on Grey Wind, as he follows Robb and Lord Glover into the castle proper. “You certainly know how to make an impression.”

After their initial, awkward encounter, Theon proves to be pleasant company and easy to talk to during their journey. He opens up surprisingly quickly about being a third son of one House, raised to heir of another, if less important, one. He never seems regretful when talking about leaving his father’s island, and Robb deems it unwise to question, especially with the animated way Theon talks about his mother, uncle and older sister, and the island of Harlaw itself and its population.

They reach Winterfell very late in the evening—stopping for the night so close to home would have been silly, and Robb has been longing for a proper bath for the past few days now—so they’re greeted by only a few men-at-arms, and his lord father, who bids Theon a tired welcome. He, too, looks like he’d like to get to bed quickly.

As Father offers Theon the customary bread and salt, Robb looks up to the family quarters, longing for his own bed. He’s surprised to see light in the windows next to his bedchambers. Sansa, clad in a nightgown, is standing by the window, backlit by flickering candlelight, her own head of red hair a fiery outline behind the panes. He raises his eyebrows at her, even though she probably won’t be able to interpret the gesture, but she hastily retreats from the window nonetheless.

Robb is jerked back when he hears his own name being spoken in that strange, melodic lilt Theon speaks with, and that he hasn’t quite got accustomed yet in the ten days they’ve spent together. He seems to only catch the end of their conversation. “Lord Robb has mentioned hot springs on our journey, and I think I’d like a quick wash first before retiring.”

Ned turns to Robb with a slightly amused quirk of his eyebrow. “Oh, he has? Well then, you might want to accompany our guest.”

Despite feeling almost dead on his feet, Robb nods. Sinking into warm, clean sheets while clean himself does sound appealing. And the hot springs might take care of some of the aches accumulated on almost an entire moon’s turn on horseback, riding back and forth between Winterfell and Deepwood Motte. Robb leads Theon to the private area of Winterfell’s baths, which have been carved into the underground hot springs heating the castle.

Theon looks slightly bewildered at the rising warmth the further underground they go, running his hand along the hot walls, as he keeps step with Robb. “Now I’m not as surprised as to why you would decide to settle in this cold place anymore,” he observes quietly, his fingers tracing the curvature in the rough walls. “It’s one thing to hear about the hot springs beneath your castle, but quite another to experience them first-hand. It seemed a strange location for a castle.”

Robb nods mutely, never having thought about Winterfell’s location. He supposes it is as it is with all things you have become accustomed to; you do not question them until they are taken away. Having to ask servants to heat up water and waiting for the bathtub to be filled always seemed like a hassle to him whenever he accompanied his father on visits to their bannermen.

“You can leave your clothes over there. The servants will take them to wash them and leave clean ones in their place.” Indicating the general direction, Robb already starts taking his clothes off as he walks, caked mud flaking off his outermost layer as he does so. Meanwhile, Theon kneels by the springs, dipping his fingers into the waters, like he can’t quite believe the possibility of its warmth, the steam rising off the pool and the general temperature within the carved cavern notwithstanding.

Robb is already in the pool by the time Theon stops marvelling at the hot springs. “I thought you wanted to get clean?” Robb asks.

Trying to tell himself that he isn’t staring, he’s only curious, Robb rakes his eyes over the expanse of the Ironborn lord’s body as he removes the layers, while trying to avoid getting any of the dirt and mud on himself or on the tiles. After all, it’s one thing to hear of Ironborn raiders covered in so much ink it’s impossible to see their skin; to see the compass on the back of Theon’s hand and the rope circling his wrist, and the single wave peeking out of his doublet’s collar. They seem small and inconsequential when he is dressed much like any other lord he’s met, probably even a little better. It is another thing entirely to see the extent of the ink—there’s his House’s sigil on his lower leg, surrounded by a curious black blot that seems messier than the precise curve of the scythe’s blade, and the fine lines connecting small, black dots covering his arm shoulder to elbow making a shape Robb can’t quite put his finger on. The lines highlight the definition of the muscle, no doubt gained from his archery, as Theon pulls his undershirt over his head.

“Is it strange, being so far inland?” Robb asks, shifting in the pool as he tears his eyes away from Theon’s bare—of ink and fabric—chest. There’s a little scarring there, old and mottled.

Theon carefully lowers himself into the bath, hitting the hot water with a satisfied groan. “Your air smells strange,” he admits slowly, then adds at Robb’s confused look, “No salt. It was still in the air at the motte. It chaps your skin in harsh weather, but I’ve never smelled air without it. It’s strange.”

He dunks his head under the water, and, as he resurfaces, with his hair clinging to his face, he asks, “So what happens tomorrow?”

“You’ll meet my family, and the household, at breakfast. I think Sansa—my eldest sister—is quite excited to meet you. I’ve seen her spy out of her window.”

A curious, unguarded look moves across Theon’s face before he licks his lips and replies, “Well, I hope I don’t disappoint her then.”

Robb winces. “You might regret those words. She was quite fascinated by tales and songs of knights and courtly love as a girl. She’s grown out of wanting to act them out, but I think she still likes the general idea of them. That, and your people being painted in … a perhaps harsher light than is perhaps fair—”

“Let me stop you there,” Theon interrupts, his abrupt gesture disturbing the waters. “The Islands are split in their ways and opinions, and whatever your sister might believe about my people is probably not harsher than what I’ve learned to expect from the mainland.”

“So if she were to expect you to be an uncultured barbarian?” Robb asks, trailing off, trying not to let it show that that is what _he’s_ expected, too.

Theon just shrugs in reply. “I’ve been called worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things: 1) The next chapter will actually have them meet. (Finally!) 2) That might also take me a bit longer, I’ll probably be swamped until the middle of February.


	5. Sansa I

A storm has been brewing within Winterfell’s walls ever since the raven with word from the Iron Islands arrived. Father had quickly sent Robb away to receive Lord Harlaw’s nephew and then closed himself up in either his study or the Maester’s turret, leaving Mother and Vayon Poole free to have the castle prepared to receive guests.

The tension in the air is so much more palpable than the times they’ve received her father’s bannermen, that it sets Sansa herself on edge. Just this morning, she’d heard her harried-looking mother yell at and then immediately apologise to a kitchen boy peeling potatoes too messily while she inspected the kitchen staff’s work. During this episode, Sansa’s half-brother Jon tried to enter the kitchens, but Sansa quickly waved him away with the hand that wasn’t currently sneaking a small honey cake off the tray where it lay to cool.

Wherever she looked in the past moon’s turn, there are tapestries being scrubbed down, floors being cleaned and dirtied again as someone inevitably tracks in mud, cupboards and supply closets aired out, food stores being inspected more often and more carefully than usual. Corners are being cleaned that haven’t seen a cleaning rag for as long as Sansa can remember, and old blankets are being brought to the seamstresses to be reworked or taken apart for rags in bulk. Even the young ladies’ sewing lessons have been taken over by shirts, trousers, coats and smallclothes that needed mending, from high- and lowborn alike. Sansa has been working on a new undershirt for Robb for the past two days, while Jeyne has been mending shirts that don’t fit Robb and Jon anymore for some of the stablehands and men-at-arms. Two boys are carrying a bucket of water almost bigger than they are across the courtyard below. Surely Mother doesn’t intend for them to wash all the glass garden’s windows?

The heel of Lady Merianne’s boot raps once against the wooden floor directly behind Sansa’s chair. “Am I boring you, Sansa?” She stresses the first syllable of Sansa’s name, in the way she knows Sansa dislikes, high and shrill, pitched to effectively cut through any daydream.

“Of course not,” Sansa replies, smiling up pleasantly at Merianne, but her gut is churning. “I must apologise.”

“As I was saying,” Merianne continues, with a heavy sigh that Sansa feels is not entirely warranted, “Your mother deems this visit a blessing in disguise. It is good practice for you and Robb, without causing too much offense should either of you misstep.” Merianne’s heels clack softly against the stone floor as she moves around the room.

With Robb gone, Sansa’s daily courtly lessons with Merianne Whent have become stricter, their tutor’s focus entirely on her. Lady Merianne is her mother’s distant cousin, daughter of a cadet branch, unwed, and sent to the North with Catelyn to keep her company among the coarse Northmen. Now a tutor to Catelyn’s two eldest children for many years, she has been instructing Sansa and Robb in what her lady mother deems common skills of courtesy and her lord father Southron foolishness.

Sansa wishes she had something to do with her hands. She doesn’t like being idle, and just sitting here and listening with one ear, as she watches the two boys place a ladder, she starts to feel like Arya. Suddenly the air in the room feels too stuffy and she would like nothing more than to go outside and do anything but this. She’d rather shadow her lady mother for the rest of the day than listen to Merianne tell her things she already knows.

Merianne picks up the cane she uses to correct Sansa and Robb’s posture—Sansa’s more so than Robb’s, Sansa is quite certain about that—when dancing and taps it lightly into her own palm. A last warning.

“You are to treat Lord Theon with the utmost respect due any Southron lord or your own lord father’s bannermen, even though his heritage is questionable at best, and he is not likely to understand the honour he is afforded.” Merianne sounds displeased enough that Sansa doubts this was included in Catelyn’s instructions to the tutor, even though Merianne and Catelyn share their opinion on the Ironborn.

It doesn’t match up with Sansa’s recollection of Rodrik Harlaw’s first visit to Winterfell. He’d sat her on his knee and told her a story that she is unable to remember, except that the girl the hero fell in love with was a fallen star. It had got her very excited and Catelyn had a hard time putting her to bed. She’d wanted to go outside to look upon the night sky instead. Later, she learned that the Ironborn placed particular importance on the stars and wondered if that was the reason they told this story and why she had never heard it before. “You speak like you expect him to be unable to string two words together.”

Merianne wrinkles her nose and taps the cane against her boot in thought, before she replies. “They should stay where they belong and not get tangled up in matters they have no grasp of.”

“But surely Father would not meet twice with a man if he were like you think they are,” Sansa replies, raising her chin defiantly.

“He is not meeting with Lord Harlaw, but his heir. His _nephew_,” she says, emphasising the last word like it is somehow dirty. Merianne is being overly precise for the same reason Sansa is being difficult, but it annoys Sansa nonetheless. And it annoys her that it annoys her in the first place.

“Father would not meet twice with a man, or his representative, if he were like you think they are,” she corrects herself, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at Merianne. She is too old for that, and she is not Arya.

Again, Merianne scrunches up her nose in distaste. “Lord Stark is a good man, I will not deny that, but he is not used to dealing with the intricacies of the court and does not wish to.”

Sansa pretends to mull that over for a moment and then smiles brightly at Merianne. “Then surely we can all count our blessings if the Ironborn are barbarians, like you say they are. I’m sure Father will not be outwitted by one.”

Merianne heaves a deep sigh, her hand twitching. “It is high time you’re wedded and become someone else’s problem. Your father should have started looking for a match for you years ago.”

Biting her lower lip to swallow her reply down, Sansa lowers her eyes to her hands instead. Merianne was usually less harsh than this, but Sansa was usually less defiant than this, too. It just seemed unkind that Lord Theon wasn’t even being given a chance to prove himself.

“Once your brother returns, we will go over your dancing lessons again. Should your father wise up, I will not have you make a fool of yourself in King’s Landing or Highgarden. Now go and find your mother. I won’t be able to teach you anything new today anyway and maybe you’ll even get some experience in running a household.”

Sansa wants to spit at her that she knows how to run a household, and balance a budget, and how to decide who is the best fit for a job, and many other things besides, and to ask for help if she doesn’t know, but that doesn’t concern etiquette, so it doesn’t matter to Merianne. And she’s not a child anymore, she thinks, so she doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, she rises to her feet in the fluid motion Merianne has taught her when she was six years old and looks down her nose at her when she bids her a good afternoon.

Lady’s ears perk up immediately when Sansa leaves the room. Merianne doesn’t permit the wolves in her domain – “it is _unseemly_, how am I supposed to make a proper lord and a queen out of you when you’ve always got those awful beasts with you” – so the wolf has been guarding the door faithfully. Perhaps taking a nap, if her head shooting up from where it’s been resting on her front legs is any indication. Giving Lady a little scratch behind her ear, Sansa asks, “Let’s see if Mother has something for us to do, huh?”

Following Lady, who is cleverly weaving her way through the castle, Sansa finds herself in the wing holding the Cassel and Poole families’ quarters, in a seldom-used corridor on the third floor. Pushing past a maid scrubbing the hallway’s windows, quickly taking a whiff at the maid’s water bucket, Lady enters a set of rooms with its door ajar. Catelyn’s voice becomes louder the closer Sansa gets.

“I want these rooms aired every morning and evening until Lord Theon’s arrival, same as Robb’s chambers. Should they not arrive tomorrow or the day after, change the bed linens again.” After her own quick inspection of the rooms, including the odd little nook that stems from sharing a wall with a turret, Lady finds herself a rug in a corner out of the way to settle down on.

“Sansa,” her mother greets her distractedly, once her eyes move from Lady to Sansa standing in the doorway. “Why aren’t you with Merianne?”

Expecting the question, Sansa had prepared a perfectly diplomatic reply to mask her excitement to get out of Merianne’s lessons early. “She thought it more productive for me to shadow you, since there is still so much work to be done. I’m sure that her lessons will still be there once things settle down again.”

Catelyn looks at her for a moment, likely thinking over whether she should question her further, but ultimately deciding against it. “Quite so. Well then, tell me what still needs doing in these rooms.” She gestures over the two maids present, one carrying a stack of linens into the bedchamber, while the other is polishing a candlestick on the desk by the window. A dull-looking letter opener is sitting next to her.

Focusing on the most obvious first, Sansa says, “The windows need washing, that is likely the girl on the corridor’s next task. Then the wall sconces, which I assume Mairie here will do after she is finished with what she is currently doing.” She takes a few steps towards and into the adjoining bedchambers. The maid has dropped the linens on a chest of drawers, joining a couple of furs, everything set out to air properly before being put on the bed. Sansa checks inside the drawers for dust and mice droppings before returning to the sitting room. “The bed needs to be prepared after everything has aired out, and perhaps the mattress needs to be checked if anything has settled in there. We might also want to add somewhere for Lord Theon to hang some of his clothes, if he prefers to do that.”

A proud smile spreads over Catelyn’s face. She clearly hasn’t considered the last option. “And?” Catelyn prompts.

Sansa briefly considers whether this is a trick meant to unsettle her, until she notices the empty basket and empty spot next to Lady. “Firewood.” She looks at the girl loudly setting down the candlestick. “And candles.”

Catelyn nods. “Very good. Actually, we should provide a few more, just in case, and keep an eye on his supply. Lord Harlaw went through an entire moon’s turn’s supply by himself while he was here. Let’s hope his nephew isn’t too like him.” She halts, briefly considering the alternative. “Or maybe we should hope that he is.”

With a last glance at the room, Catelyn nods, content that all will be done to her satisfaction. “Now, the girls all have their instructions, so there’s no need for us to stay. They can do their work, and don’t need constant supervision. Nothing gets done that way.” Leaving the maids to their work, Catelyn gestures for Sansa to follow her. A quiet whistle has Lady at Sansa’s heels. “It’s important to trust your servants but to always check their work once they report they’re done. Or to have a trusted servant do it in your place. That way, you can root out the ones who need more, or clearer, instruction and those who simply don’t do their work properly. Keep a list and keep it updated. Keeping your servants in order is important if you want to run a household successfully.” Catelyn fixes Sansa with a stern look, before she adds, “And I will not have it said that my daughter doesn’t.”

“You’d think the king was coming,” the girl cleaning the hallway windows mutters under her breath as they pass her. Catelyn stops and has already done half a turn before she shakes her head. “Or the crown prince, as the case may be,” she adds instead of admonishing the maid. The girl giggles at her lady’s words, likely half out of relief that she isn’t being disciplined. Sansa looks at her. Her face doesn’t seem familiar, she can’t have been part of the household for long.

Emboldened by her mother’s words, Sansa dares to ask the question on her mind since all these preparations began. “Why all the upheaval? Isn’t it a little … much?”

Breathing a heavy sigh, Catelyn shakes her head. “That, only the gods know. But it is no matter. Your father’s instructions were very clear. I only hope Ned realises what he’s asking, after he has so conveniently removed himself from the tasks he has set.”

Sansa spends the rest of the day following her mother about the castle and is finally allowed to issue some orders herself by the time the sun sets. Catelyn explains that they will make a last round around the parts of the castle that have been worked on today, to check if it has been done properly and to see if there is anything left to do upon the morrow.

Over supper, Catelyn’s mood has turned anxious, with Robb’s return expected tonight or tomorrow, and Sansa can’t help but be caught up in it. Arya and the boys have been banished to the other end of the table, under the watchful gaze of Septa Mordane and Jory Cassel. Jon hasn’t even turned up and he doesn’t seem to be at one of the lower benches either. She does spot Beth Cassel and Jeyne at one of the lower benches though, talking with some of the seamstresses. Beth is showing one of the younger women something on her fingers. Ned is deep in conversation with Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin, Greenman Cregan and Septon Chayle, leaving Sansa alone with her mother, who has decided that now is the best time to go over the expectations placed on Sansa’s shoulders for the coming weeks.

“Lord Theon is expected to stay here until at least your nameday feast, and I expect you to be courteous and accommodating to him throughout his entire visit. Where he is concerned, you will serve as lady of the castle.”

Her heart skips a beat. She has certainly been looking forward to someone that was neither her father’s bannerman nor related to her visiting Winterfell, if only to break up the dull daily affairs, but she had never even dared to dream that her mother would specifically instruct her to entertain the young lord. Sansa is trying to take in all the information, but she only ends up chewing her piece of dry cheese more than is necessary. She hadn’t expected to be Lord Theon’s hostess, especially not with Robb being sent out to welcome him. It is more responsibility than anticipated, and something she can’t quite work out. She finally swallows her cheese and soaks a piece of bread in the sauce left on her plate, while Catelyn continues talking.

“Be polite and be interested in what he has to say. Knowing how to entertain a lord that has not known you since you were knee high will only aid you in your future. Never forget that he is a Lord Paramount’s son and the heir of an ally of ours, however odd. If he has any questions—and if he is anything like his uncle, he will have thousands of them—answer them to your best ability, but—and this is especially important—guard yourself. Don’t give too much away and don’t bring shame on us, or yourself. Never forget to use your head.”

She’s excited enough by the prospect of and trust placed that she almost misses the word “ally.” Almost.

“Perhaps try to find out something about his culture, how the people of Harlaw fare. From what I hear, there is something of a disagreement between Lord Harlaw and the other Ironborn. It would be a gesture of goodwill, to show you care about his people.” Catelyn looks pained even as she speaks the words, clearly disagreeing with the idea that any Ironborn deserves such a gesture.

“Of course,” Sansa says quietly, tearing apart the slice between her fingers as she thinks. But all she can come up with is, “why?”

Catelyn focuses on the flagon of wine in front of her as she answers the question. “That is a question you may direct at your father. He has been very tight-lipped about this whole visit.”

Later, after the last round around the castle, as Sansa prepares for bed, the faint blast of the horn announcing riders approaching the gate sounds through the quiet. Wondering if they really would be arriving this late, she grabs a candle and heads for her window.

She only gets a glimpse of Robb’s party returning from her bedroom window and she hastily retreats from the window as Robb catches her staring, fingers carding through her hair in a pretence of grooming herself. It wasn’t long enough to make out anyone other than Robb—easily recognisable by his hair—and definitely not long enough to get a good look at Lord Theon.

Resisting the temptation to wait up until she hears Robb’s door opening and closing next to hers, Sansa tells herself that he must be tired from this journey and probably isn’t in the mood to answer his sister’s questions about the foreigner she is going to meet in the morning anyway, but her mother’s words still ring between her ears.

Neither Arya nor Jon are anywhere to be found when their guest is officially welcomed the next morning. Lord Theon enters the great hall following a boy of about ten, one whose job usually involves bringing messages all over the castle. When she lays eyes on him, Sansa’s heart almost stops.

Sansa isn’t quite sure what she has pictured, but Lord Theon Harlaw is not quite it. He looks like he hasn’t had the most sleep, but the tiredness on his fine features is quickly forgotten, because he is _handsome_. His hair a sandy blonde colour, he has clearly taken some time in front of a mirror to tame it. Perhaps a bit shorter than her, he is dressed finely, his tunic a heavy, perfectly black cloth, accented with silver trim at his cuffs. The black of his tunic matches the black of the ink on his neck, making it look like it bleeds into his skin. The fabric looks rich, only a little like velvet, but unlike anything she has seen before and she longs to touch it, to feel its softness beneath her fingertips and to figure out the texture. It is marred by the coarseness of the fur that he wears across his broad shoulders, one with slightly uneven stitches along the seams. Not her own handiwork, then, nor one of the seamstresses’, but perhaps Beth’s. She is so distracted by simply looking at him that Sansa almost misses the introductions entirely.

“Lady Sansa,” he greets her, boldly meeting her gaze, and his eyes are of a colour that she lacks the words to describe, “it is a pleasure to meet you.” His voice sounds unlike anything she has ever heard, he speaks measured and quietly, with a melodic quality to his accent. Finding she can’t meet those eyes for too long, she lowers her head and looks at his hand taking hers, raising her hand close to his lips, his head bent, like in the songs. She barely notices the queer black star inked on the back of his hand, so consumed is she with the need to push away the sudden heat in her hand where he is touching her.

Snatching her hand back and her head suddenly devoid of words, she speaks the first phrases that come to mind as she dips into a polite curtsy, perhaps a little too low, if the thin line of Lady Merianne’s mouth on the edge of her vision is any indication. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Theon. We are delighted to welcome you to Winterfell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by spite and also Apocalyptica's Cell-0 for finally breaking my writer's block after this chapter had been sitting at 1k for like a month.
> 
> Credit for the title "greenman" goes to Synne. We've been tossing around ideas surrounding the old gods faith and decided that having no clergy was dumb, so I'm electing to ignore it. Someone's got to take care of the trees, dammit!


	6. Theon IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve got a half-baked excuse why this took so long (cries in essential employee), but mostly I’m a dumbass who got distracted by other stuff, got paralysed by fear, and _then_ realised that I need to rewrite half of what I intended to be in this chapter from Sansa’s POV. Thanks for bearing with me.

Theon scrutinises the sitting order at the table, trying to make sense of it. He’d expected to be placed at Lord Stark’s side—the proper thing to do—but instead, Lady Stark is at his left, and a man in green robes to his right. Instead, he finds himself between Robb and Lady Sansa. Still wondering if this is a slight or simply part of a plan he is unable to figure out, he turns his spoon between his fingers as he scrutinises the contents of the bowl in front of him. It doesn’t look particularly appetising.

“Is this your first time having porridge?” Lady Sansa’s voice on his left is a welcome distraction. Her voice is deeper than he expected, not as girlish as her exterior had made him think, giving the low vowels a rhythm that makes it easier to understand. Or perhaps he managed to get used to it in the last days of Robb and his men’s company.

“If that is what this is,” he gestures towards his bowl, “then yes.”

“It’s made through boiling oats in milk. Today it’s goat, usually it’s cow,” she explains, then points towards the dishes on the table. “See, you can put whatever you want in it to make it suit your tastes. Robb over there swears on walnuts and almonds, with a little honey. Our sister Arya has been eating nothing but almonds and blackberries for the last two months. Before that, it was raisins.” She points towards a girl at the other end of the table, sitting between two boys. Theon doesn’t think he’s seen her earlier, she must have slipped in quietly. She looks nothing like her siblings, but more like her father than the other four combined. There are dark stains on the edges of her sleeves. Theon turns back to Sansa just as she’s finishing talking, “I like putting some apples, honey and berries.”

Robb leans over to him conspiratorially. “Also don’t forget Sansa’s special ingredient, cinnamon. Likes to put it on everything. She’s going to beggar our father.”

She gives her brother a dirty look over Theon’s breakfast. “It was so nice when you were gone.” Her tone is light enough, calling her words out for the lie they are.

“Is it hard to get a hold of here?” he asks, wondering how fruits that don’t grow in these climates survive the long overland journey north. Spices, yes, but there are fruits on the table that can’t possibly have been grown here. Too cold.

Sansa confirms his thoughts when she exclaims, “Oh! Yes! It doesn’t grow in the cold, so it’s among the things Father trades for. We mostly get fruits and spices from the Reach, but I don’t think cinnamon, specifically, is from there originally. I think it might be from Essos.”

“Sansa likes her Southron fancies. You should see her devour lemon cakes. You’ll probably get the opportunity before you leave, her nameday feast is soon.” Robb pauses, then adds, “Lemons are from Dorne.”

Theon thinks privately that it’s more likely to be easier and cheaper for the Islands to get lemons from Dorne than it is for the Northern people, but he doesn’t mention it. It’s inconsequential.

“What do you usually have for breakfast then?” She gestures towards her half-eaten bowl. “I suspect you don’t necessarily have agriculture.”

“Well,” he pauses, wondering how much he can reveal without coming off as an uncultured barbarian. He opts for a partial truth, “Harlaw usually trades for spices and fruits with the mainland, mostly some traders from the Reach. A relative of mine has a mother of House Serrett.” He leaves it at that, lets them draw their own conclusions. “Some merchant vessels dock at Harlaw though, and they come from all over. And, of course, our own ships go to Essos and the Summer Isles.”

There’s a twinkle in her eye when she considers his answer. “That’s interesting, but you haven’t answered my question.”

He feels his ears burn, just a little. He must remember to be careful as long as he’s here. “Oh. Yes. Grilled fish, with some greens, mostly. Depends on what is available, aside from fish.”

“That sounds interesting.” Glancing at his bowl, she startles. “But you still haven’t eaten anything!” She openly smiles at him and motions across the table. “Just choose something, and mix it in.”

He reaches for a bowl of little blue berries that he’s never seen before, and, glancing at Lady Sansa’s half-finished bowl, measures out what he hopes is a reasonable number into it, then asks Robb to pass him a dish of dried dates.

Lady Sansa pinches a generous amount of powder from another dish, making and maintaining eye contact with her brother as she sprinkles it over Theon’s dish. “Try it now.”

“If you use it as freely as Sansa, you both really are going to beggar our father,” Robb comments before going back to his own breakfast.

“I’ll bring some next time, to make up for it,” Theon declares easily and then finally lowers his spoon, carefully mixing the contents of his bowl.

Robb’s brow furrows at his words and he falls quiet, dipping his own spoon into his own bowl, resuming his breakfast quietly. Lady Sansa, on the other hand, watches Theon intently as he takes his first bite.

“And?” she asks, excitement colouring her words, voice going a little higher.

“Good. I wouldn’t want to have it every day, but I like it.”

He spends the rest of breakfast in pleasant conversation with Lady Sansa. She chatters away happily, and while it’s all of little consequence, Theon can’t help but think that this is a front she’s putting up. There is a sharpness in her eye, and an easiness to her wit, the way she picks up and steers the conversation that reminds him of his uncle.

* * *

Theon has some time to get his bearings before he’s supposed to present the Stark family with his guest gifts and, after a quick look into the mirror—or two, or three, and perhaps another one that lasts a little longer—he starts to sort out his luggage.

Luckily, nobody seems to have touched his luggage while he’s been at breakfast, though someone has straightened out his bed and aired the rooms. But his luggage is still in his chests where he left it, so he starts by putting his clothes up and away before kneeling down in front of the chest Alannys packed for him.

Leaving the blanket at the top folded, as his mother told him, he goes through the rest of the chest’s contents, seeing what is there and, now that he has glimpsed the Stark family, to figure out what is meant for whom. Lady Sansa’s gift is easy, Alannys has made it very clear the blanket is for her. So is Lord Robb, the drinking horn made of bleached whalebone with the carved wolf is clearly meant for the heir. There is a stuffed wolf, just like his own kraken, likely meant for little Lady Arya, but having seen her mud-stained dress and the callouses on her fingers over breakfast, he supposes he could switch her gift with that meant for Lord Bran, a small knife, in a fine sheath in Stark colours. They are of a similar height, it could work. There are the little playing blocks for the smallest boy, Rickon, and another knife, the sheath of simpler make and in Stark colours reversed, for the bastard Theon hasn’t glimpsed yet.

He lays out the books Rodrik had pulled out of his personal collection for Lord and Lady Stark next to the assortment already arrayed in front of him. Then there’s the matter of the bottom of the chest, one likely installed to hide things, but it’s raised up so much that it’s obvious it’s there, so he supposes that it’s just meant to separate the contents of this compartment from the others. Putting the piece of lacquered wood aside and peering into it, he suddenly finds himself having trouble breathing. There, folded up into a neat square, is a thick black cloak trimmed in fur with the silver scythe of Harlaw on it. He can only see part of the blade, but the fine material makes it clear that this is a bride’s cloak, used in marriages of the faiths of the mainland. Wrapped into it is a small bottle of scent, likely brought in from Lys by Yara, a fine silver chain with a wolf pendant, and two small pearl earrings that Lady Sansa likely has no use for – gifts for his bride upon their wedding day.

He knew, of course, that marriage was part of the agreement Rodrik and Lord Stark had made so long ago. After all, he had read the little book, containing the terms of their alliance, as well as Rodrik’s notes, over and over, had seen it black on white, had mulled the arrangement concerning him and Lord Stark’s daughter his uncle had mentioned to him so many years ago when naming him heir so many times. But hearing and reading about it and holding the proof of it in his own hands is another matter entirely.

A knock on the door takes him out on his musings. It’s the boy who had shown him to the hall for breakfast, coming to collect him and his gifts.

* * *

Thankful that the Northmen don’t seem to stand too much on ceremony, his receiving bread and salt again – this time ceremonial, for all to see – and giving over his gifts is a quick affair. He’s opted to give little Rickon his gift first, so the boy is already happily gnawing on one of his carved blocks as little Lady Arya’s eyes brighten when she unsheathes her knife and the look on her face alone makes his choice to swap the gifts worth it.

When she receives her gift, Lady Sansa curtseys prettily in thanks, and he has the overwhelming urge to lean up and kiss her cheek, but he resists. It wouldn’t be appropriate, and he’s still left holding the last gift. He looks around helplessly and, glancing at Lady Stark, curses his stupidity. There is no easy way to hide the knife in its sheath, the reversed colours standing out too much against the black of his outfit. And there is no easy way to ask for Jon Snow without insulting his hostess either.

“I … uh,” he says, then stops, looking helplessly at Robb in front of him. “This is for—” He holds up the knife, trying to make his meaning clear without saying the name. Lady Stark probably has ears sharp as a fox, especially where the bastard’s name is concerned.

Robb furrows his brows and looks at him with a confused look, before he looks down at Theon’s hands and says, “oh.” He, too, looks at his mother, and then takes Theon’s arm to drag him away without explanation. Theon plants his heels, shaking his head no. He can’t leave, it would be an even worse slight than mentioning the lord’s bastard during a ceremony. Instead, he thrusts the small thing at Robb, trusting him enough to keep it safe and hidden from his mother’s watchful eye.

That dealt with, Theon looks back up and finds Lady Sansa showing the blanket to her mother and a girl about her own age, with a subtle flush colouring her cheeks. Lady Catelyn runs her hand across the stitches before unfurling it properly. Her eyes roam over the squared pattern, its colours and she visibly startles, the reality of the combination of the colours sinking in. Her head shoots up, as though stung, blue eyes falling on him, turning cold as ice before she thrusts the blanket back into her daughter’s hands and walks with measured steps up to her husband.

A singular realisation races across his mind when he observes Sansa’s fingers curl into the fabric so hard that her knuckles whiten. Her mouth presses into a thin line as she looks up and at him. Her blue eyes burrow right to his core and they don’t seem to like what they find there.

He looks away from her, to find Lord Stark shaking his head at his wife, who is talking quietly but intently, tension practically bleeding off her in waves. When Theon turns back to look at Lady Sansa, she has turned away from him, her friend’s arm around her shoulders.

_They didn’t know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk to your loved ones _neddard_


	7. Sansa II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a surprise update appears! (trust me, it was a surprise to me, too. sleeplessness and avoiding work are powerful motivators. I had to chase a seagull out of my bedroom first thing this morning)

Sitting on a low bench outside her father’s solar, Jeyne beside her, Sansa runs her hands over the material of the blanket, lost in thought. It’s not thin enough to be purely decorative, but it wouldn’t keep her warm during the winter either. But, she amends bitterly, it isn’t meant to withstand a Northern winter. It’s a fine material, clearly expensive, and likely not native to the harsh Iron Islands. As she runs her fingers over the small, even stitches, she notices that the pattern used is different, more intricate, than the one she’d have used. Her fingers itch to reach for her knife to carefully slice them open, to figure out how they work, why they were chosen, if they are meant to be sturdier than ordinary ones. A lot of work and thought has been poured into this, so she settles for petting Lady, who grumbles a soft sound of satisfaction.

Examining the stitches, feeling them under her fingertips, yearning for the small fabric scissors in the sewing room, petting Lady; all of it is easier to focus on than what this blanket represents. It’s easier than listening to the muffled voice of her father and the less muffled voice of her mother arguing on the other side of the door.

“He seems nice,” Jeyne tries, quietly. Looking at her, Sansa considers an answer, but remains quiet. Nothing she could say would properly encompass how she feels. Lady’s fur is soft under her hands, her head a comforting weight on Sansa’s knees.

The guard, Alyn, is standing on the opposite side of the corridor, one eye on her and Jeyne, though Sansa doesn’t know why. Does Father think she’s going to run away? Where would she go? Does Mother think Lord Theon is going to steal and sail away with her? Soon, he won’t have to steal her to do that. The days left to her in her childhood home are numbered. Not too long ago, she had been looking forward to this day. Though she expected King Robert’s firstborn son, Prince Joffrey, to be the man to take her away to wed her. Perhaps Willas Tyrell or Renly Baratheon. Even though the Tyrell heir was almost of an age with her own mother, he remained unmarried. She would have liked to see the fertile, green lands of the Reach, the roses of Highgarden. The deep forests and the cliffs of the Stormlands. Theon Harlaw would have never even entered in her mind when she considered her marriage prospects, not even in her dreams. Even one of her own father’s bannermen’s heirs would have been more likely. They hadn’t intermarried with the Karstarks for a long time…

“He’s handsome?” Jeyne ventures again, and her hand enters Sansa’s vision, smoothing the fabric of the blanket on her knees. “Don’t you think he dresses nicely?”

Unbidden, a giggle escapes Sansa. “Yes. I’d have expected someone less…ostentatious from the Iron Islands.” She doesn’t want to be unkind, so she keeps the image of an unwashed, rough sailor she’s had in her mind until she’d defied Lady Merianne to herself. “Although, House Harlaw is the richest House of the Iron Islands.” She read that in one of the books Robb is supposed to be studying. He’s always bringing his stewardship lessons to her, claiming she has a better head for them than him, often reading her the questions he’s supposed to answer himself.

“Well, your wife is going to be doing most of the stewardship for you, anyway,” she’d told him after she’d started answering them for him. “You’ll be far too busy mediating disputes between your bannermen and seeing to the concerns of the smallfolk to concern yourself with the everyday matters of running a household. Though you will have to know your own bannermen.” She added with a small smile after she’d switched the sigils of Houses Kenning of Harlaw and Kenning of Kayce the correct way around in his answers.

“Not every woman is as smart as you or Mother. What if she’s stupid?” He’d looked down at her corrections, furious with himself. “Why am I supposed to know minor Houses of the Westerlands or Iron Islands, anyway?”

“It’s always better to know more than you think you need to know,” she’d informed him, perhaps feeling a little smug. “And if your wife is stupid, you’ll find her many, equally stupid ladies-in-waiting she can sit around with and flap her jaw with, and just get a capable steward, instead. Like Vayon Poole.”

“Poole reports to Mother, though.”

“So you’ll have your steward report to you, instead. But you won’t marry a stupid woman. You’ll have your pick of brides,” she’d assured him and that had settled matters in her mind. Robb as the future Lord Paramount wouldn’t have to worry about his future, while she, a woman flowered for more than three years now, remained unspoken for. Now I know the reason, at least, she thinks desperately. Spoken for, and nobody knew. Why hadn’t Father told her? Or Mother? What was he planning?

“Sansa.” Mother’s voice, impatient. As she looks up, she sees Catelyn’s face, red-cheeked and furious; next to her, Jeyne, worried, and Alyn across, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Come inside, your lord father has something to tell us.”

Clutching the blanket to her breast, Sansa enters her father’s solar, Lady following closely, before Catelyn can shut her out. Neither Lady nor Sansa needed to have worried about that, because Catelyn stays outside for a moment longer. It gives Sansa time to take in her surroundings. Ned’s solar has never looked so intimidating before. Her father is standing bent over his desk, a stack of loose correspondence in front of him. Behind her, she hears Catelyn thank Jeyne and Alyn, but Sansa is still taking in the picture in front of her. Black sealing wax is peeling off of the small piece of paper on top, like it’s only recently been opened. “Sit down, Sansa,” her mother commands, while she’s re-entering the room, closing the door behind her with a decisive thud.

Sansa hasn’t felt this small in the presence of her parents in a long time. But then, she doesn’t think she’s been all alone with both of them in a very long time, so perhaps it is not surprising. To think of it, she doesn’t think she’s ever been alone, truly alone, with both her parents.

“I don’t want to sit down.” There’s no reason to defy her mother when she’s been hit with this news just as unexpectedly as herself. But her father isn’t speaking, and she feels the urge, the _need_ to shout at the top of her lungs, perhaps for the first time in her life. It’s her future being threatened. Threatened by a very different future than she’s envisioned, and a vastly different future than the one she’s been prepared for. Lady Merianne’s words from the day before echo in her mind. _I will not have you make a fool of yourself in King’s Landing or Highgarden._ These hadn’t been dreams of fancy, hadn’t been the fantasies of a foolish girl, these had been very clear preparations, with clear instruction. A goal worked towards.

Finally, Father looks up. He looks tired, eyes sunken deep into their sockets. “Sansa. Listen to your mother. You’re both angry with me; there’s no need to be angry with each other, too.”

It’s hard to argue with that sentiment, really, so she sits. Lady stays standing beside her, eyes and ears alert. Catelyn’s hand touches the wolf’s head, once, when she walks to stand behind Sansa, hands resting on the back of her seat, fingertips skimming her shoulders.

“Well, I had hoped to speak to both of you before, well, _that_.” Using his left hand, Ned gestures weakly towards the traitorous blanket, colours of wolf and scythe, quartered, upon Sansa’s knees. “I hadn’t expected—stupid of me, really. I should have known Lord Harlaw would do everything. Well, by the books.” He chuckles, seemingly despite himself.

“This isn’t funny, Eddard.” Catelyn’s voice is shaking as she cuts her husband off. “What were you _thinking_? There are so many better alliances! Sansa is meant to be _queen_. Or, at the very least, lady of Highgarden or Storm’s End.” The last sentence is added quietly, clear on which one Catelyn has had her heart set.

“If you think I’ll see _our daughter_ married to a man twice her age, or the son of a man who condones the murder of _children_, or even only into his family, you’ll have to think again, Cat.” Ned doesn’t sound tired anymore now, he sounds angry, though at whom, exactly, is hard to tell.

“King Robert is your oldest friend,” Catelyn argues quietly, but the pressure on Sansa’s shoulder is gone. She seems to be holding onto the back of the chair with her entire weight now.

Ned’s reply is clipped, measured, pushing his true feelings down. “A friend I haven’t seen in nineteen years. I don’t know who the man sitting the Iron Throne is. My friend died with Elia Martell’s children. Robert is surrounded by lions, and I trust _them_ even less than I trust the man he has become.”

“Ned—” Catelyn’s voice falters.

“What about _me_?” Sansa interrupts. “I thought you came to fetch me to ask me what I think, or at least to give me an explanation. But if you’re just arguing between yourselves, why did you even come to get me? I may as well have sat outside listening to Jeyne trying to cheer me up than listen to you two argue.”

She’d liked Lord Theon well enough when she’d talked to him at breakfast, he’d been easy to converse with, but he’s not exactly of equal station to her. Judging by the way the back of her chair is shaking, her mother seems to agree.

Sansa knows she was being groomed to be a high lord’s wife, even a king’s, and that prospect excited her when she was younger, while Septa Mordane still shielded her. Now she knows, in detail, what her marriage duties entail. There are tales about the Ironborn, and those tales portray them as less than…gentle, with women.

On the other hand, Lord Theon had seemed nice enough and handsome, just as Jeyne said. Surely someone who looked like Lord Theon didn’t need to force women into his bed, force his wife to do…acts that were unseemly, unworthy of a highborn lady. But he had known that she was to be his wife soon. Of course he wouldn’t have wanted to get off on the wrong foot with her. Although, could she really hold him to the same standards as she would the Southron lords she had been preparing for? Everybody knew the Islanders were uncultured and uncivilised. _No._ That voice sounded too much like Lady Merianne, too much like the opinion of the Riverlanders who had once been conquered and ruled by the Iron Islands. By House Hoare. But the Hoares were dead and gone, obliterated by dragonfire. And dragonfire was gone, now, too.

“I planned to let you choose yourself from my bannermen’s sons. There are still old men with long memories who resent my marriage to Cat, through no fault of her own. I planned to marry all of you within the North. But, well, Lord Harlaw came to me with an offer, all those years ago.” Now he’s smiling at her. “Do you remember his visit? You loved his stories. Sat upon his knee and begged for more, long past your bedtime.”

“I do, and I did, but that’s not the _point_! Are you really going to send me off with a…_barbarian_?” The word is past her lips before she can think better of it, and once it’s out, she’d rather take it back. She’d promised herself to be kind to Lord Theon, not to judge him on preconceived notions. She’d wanted to show Merianne up, but now, she was no better than her.

Catelyn easily picks up the argument. “You can’t possibly think that your bannermen will be happy to see the best match their heir could make be shipped off to _someone else_’s bannerman? What were you _thinking_? The _Iron Islands_?”

Ned looks down from Catelyn’s face, to where Sansa is still sitting, one hand clenched into her blanket, the other curled into Lady’s neck. “You’re not marrying a barbarian. Rodrik has sent me letters of young Theon’s progress ever since we came to our agreement. He likes to read, he’s conscientious in his studies, he’s courteous to his mother, he cares for those of lesser station. He’s a bit of a peacock, whatever that is supposed to mean. He’s as much a barbarian as I am.” He glances up at Cat, again, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, before he looks down to Sansa again. “You’re marrying the future Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands.”

Catelyn balks. “He’s a thirdborn son. Balon Greyjoy has two older sons, men long grown. Why would you even consider that Theon Harlaw is going to inherit the Lord Paramountcy? It’s delusional, Ned.” Catelyn finally lets go of the back of the chair, and comes to stand between Sansa, pulling the hand clutching the blanket into her own. “She deserves better. She deserves more than pirates and reapers and a damp castle at the edge of the world.”

“Balon Greyjoy’s sons are both unmarried. Both without legitimate heirs, as far as we know. And I have word that Lord Greyjoy has broken the peace and started raiding the coasts of the Seven Kingdoms again.” He indicates the broken wax seal topping his stack of papers. “I’m sure the Harlaw boy carries more information. Rodrik Harlaw, then as now, believes that it’s time for … a change in leadership. And I’m inclined to agree.”

Catelyn gasps. “The ships. You’ve been preparing for war.”

Ned’s head shoots up again, eyebrows shooting up even further than Sansa thought possible. “How do you know about the ships?”

Now, she just sounds exasperated. “I manage your household budget, Ned. I look over your taxes. Do you really think me stupid enough not to notice when money is being diverted? Lumber? Flax? Cotton?”

He blinks at her. Obviously, he has.

Catelyn huffs. Her hand curls tighter around Sansa’s own. “I don’t know whether I should be more insulted by your lack of faith in my abilities or your lack of trust for _not telling me you’ve betrothed our eldest daughter whilst plotting treason_!”

“It’s not exactly treason. He has a claim to the lordship. And Greyjoy has made the first move. It’s only a matter of time until Robert calls to put them down.”

“A third son’s claim. A third son who has been adopted as another family’s heir. You might as well sit Rickon on your chair and proclaim him the future Lord of Winterfell.”

“Worse claims have been pressed and won. Quite recently, in fact.”

Catelyn shakes her head. “You mean to marry Sansa off and then start a war.”

“War is coming either way. Balon Greyjoy was close to rebelling and proclaiming himself king the year Rodrik Harlaw came here. It’s only a matter of time. I intend to see the right man win.”

“Ned. Please, think about this. What about not wanting to meddle in others’ affairs?”

“I would. But there are certain matters that…force my hand.”

“And what, pray tell, could those possibly be?” The tone in Catelyn’s voice is telling. She doesn’t believe him.

Ned takes a deep breath. “Cat, there is something else I need to talk to you about.” He glances at Sansa. “You may go.”

She almost thought they’d forgotten again that she’s here. “But—”

“Your betrothal is not up for discussion. You might as well start coming to terms with it. I’ll have a few things delivered to your chambers.” He stops and looks at Sansa. _Really_ looks at her, and then, straight through her. He’s said his piece and is done with her. It would hurt, if she wasn’t already used to it.

Lady bares her teeth at Ned, reflecting Sansa’s feelings on the topic quite reasonably.

Catelyn, at least, seems to agree with her. “What else could you _possibly_ want to discuss now that _doesn’t_ concern Sansa?”

Sansa watches her father take a deep breath, chest expanding as his gaze moves from her mother, to herself, and then back to her mother. It looks like he’s steeling himself for the storm about to come. “Jon,” he says. Oh. He is.

“Sansa. Out.” Catelyn’s voice is sharp and crisp, brooking no argument, her hand shaking as she points towards the door.

She feels like arguing, wants to demand answers, but her mother has been angry to start with, and Ned bringing up Jon will not help Sansa’s position. She does _not_ wish to be caught in the middle of this particular storm. They’ll all be lucky if Winterfell is still standing upon the morrow. As she leaves, she only slams the door a little.

Jeyne, may the gods bless her, is still outside. She’s edged closer to the door, to catch a few snippets of the argument, but the look on her face is too honest, too questioning for her to have caught anything of importance. Curious, when it feels like her entire life has been taken apart. Now she’s trying to put it back together, but the pieces don’t fit together quite as neatly as they used to.

Sansa doesn’t stop to talk, strides right past her friend and her guard, with Lady leading the way, like she knows where Sansa is going better than Sansa herself does.

“Wait!” Jeyne calls after her, hurrying to catch up without tripping over the skirts she hasn’t had time to arrange properly. “Where are you going?”

“Going to find Lord Theon. See what he has to say for himself.” She hadn’t known until the words left her mouth, but it seems the most sensible and the most contrary thing to do at the same time.

“You can’t!” Jeyne pleads, her head turning to Alyn, as though he’s about to turn into Lady Merianne, to lecture her on propriety. Manners.

“We’re _to be married_,” Sansa replies hotly. “I can get to know my betrothed whenever and however much I want.”

Jeyne needs to take two for every step Sansa makes, because Sansa now feels filled with purpose. Striding into the courtyard where her brothers usually train, she makes quite the entrance. Sansa is rarely seen here, and even less making a direct line towards the centre of attention, the shooting range. Alyn, following them at a safe distance, breathes a sigh of relief when Sansa finally comes to a halt. They’ve arrived just in time to see Lord Theon hit the bullseye, Robb clapping him amicably on the shoulder and little Bran looking up at the foreigner, filled with excitement. Even Jon looks less sullen than usual, standing a little off to the side, twirling a small, white sheath between his hands while he’s watching the shooting.

“Lord Theon,” Sansa says, loud enough for the assembled crowd to fall quiet. Only belatedly, she realises she’s still holding his blanket. Thrusting it at Jeyne, she continues, “would you like to walk with me? See the godswood, perhaps?”

He glances up, and is that surprise on his face? For just a moment, and then his expression changes. “Nothing would make me happier, Lady Sansa.” He has the _gall_ to smirk at her.

Gods curse him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sansa: I will bond with my betrothed out of _spite_

**Author's Note:**

> title paraphrased from Hosea 8:7.
> 
> I'd appreciate it if you took a moment to leave a comment to tell me what you liked (or didn't!) I'm also on tumblr as [partialconstellations](https://partialconstellations.tumblr.com).
> 
> **Update June 7 2020:** I promise that this is not dead, but the general state of the world, as well as some personal issues and stress, has stopped me from continuing to write this for a while. I've got a month filled with uni work and general work left, so I might finally be able to focus on writing some more then.


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